


His

by LalliMachina



Series: Habits [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:25:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LalliMachina/pseuds/LalliMachina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows he's a literary agent, that he's worked with some pretty big authors and that he doesn't need to sell drugs to keep his lifestyle. How does a literary agent become a drug dealer in the first place? Hell, he didn't even know his first name. That if Crowley is actually his real name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His

**Author's Note:**

> SO I did write more would you look at that? I think I might just write a bunch of drabbles set in this AU

Kissing Crowley feels strange. Not bad, definitely, or weird, but strange. Maybe because it took a while for them to finally kiss. Their lips don't touch at all the first time they sleep together. That doesn't mean they don't use them. Crowley's lips on his neck, Castiel's fingers on his mouth, tongue on skin, biting, fucking.

But that's just it. Fucking. As casual and businesslike as when he sold Cas weed. For once it's enough for him, what he wants. Someone who's there, always willing to give him what he wants, from pills to sex. No intimacy, no caring, no love. No pain. He does start to spend more and more time in Crowley's apartment, though. He doesn't mind, or doesn't seem to mind at least. When it comes to the caring deal it appears that he doesn't do much of it. Not when Castiel has a breakdown on his kitchen's floor or OD's on his couch –––– both of which have happened more than once. He'll just offer him a cigarette or drive him to the hospital. Ever impersonal. 

It's during one of the _kitchen breakdowns_ that they kiss for the first time and things start to change, in subtle but dangerous ways.

Cas' back rested against the fridge, he stared at nothing, eyes as still as a dead fish's. It wasn't anything really, a fit of sudden numbness. They weren't uncommon, especially after Balthazar sent his first postcard. The other sat down next to him when he was rereading it. Again.

“Fag?” Usual routine, he held out the pack of marlboros, a smirk on his lips. Castiel looked at him, who was still wearing a suit even though it was nearly three AM, and shook his head, averting his gaze again. Crowley took one out of the little box for himself.

“He sent you that?”

Castiel didn't bother to acknowledge the question, nor did he react when the man took the postcard and ran his eyes over it before crumpling it and placing it back on his hands.

“You know, darling––––” He took a zippo out of his blazer's pocket and lit the cigarette up. “Believe it or not, your life isn't that bad.”

He took a long drag, smoke floating around him. Effervescent. Cas scoffed.

“I think I'll take that cigarette,” this comment is completely ignored.

“I mean it, just because you got dumped once, doesn't mean you get to become the embodiment of pathos. ”

He didn't reply to that, his eyes continued to fix themselves on nothing at all until a hand gripped his chin and forced him to look at the man next to him.

They don't say anything, and that makes part of Castiel glad. Crowley's dark pupils seemed to look into his own eyes and analyze every corner of his soul, every little scar Balthazar had left on it, every little ugly and wicked part he tried to hide so thoroughly. Cas couldn't hide them from him, that both worried him and made it easier to breathe around the other.

“At least I have you.”

There's a smirk on Crowley's features as he leans in. Perhaps the reason why kissing him is strange is that it feels so soft. So different from the roughness that is his touch, the wittiness that is the way he speaks. It's soft, almost caring, almost kind. Perhaps it's because it's one of the very few things that he had in common with Balthazar.

Crowley pulled away and he looked beautiful. That thought had never crossed Castiel's mind, never, until that moment.

“Nobody _has_ me, sweetie.”

* * *

After that the drugs are free, even the cocaine (which Castiel has grown to _appreciate_ ) and after trying some from other dealers, he could now agree with Crowley that his product is the purest. The best. Really, he probably wouldn't be using it if it weren't. Weed is hardly ever smoked anymore, all that runs through his veins is coke, Adderall and alcohol. All that runs through his mind is coke and Crowley.

It's not love, God, absolutely not. Cas knows what love feels like. The hole that it carves into your chest, the hole that can only he filled by another person (and not any other person), is unmistakeable. Out of all people Castiel ought to know that, he still has that hole and for better or worse it doesn't crave Crowley yet. 

It's more of a fascination, not quite an obsession but somewhere near that. The man seems to know everything about him, from all about how his brother ran away from home to the very details of his last relationship. That of course not counting the little things Castiel didn't even need to tell him, all the little things he just guessed. That is beside the point, which is that he himself doesn't know a thing about Crowley.

He knows he's a literary agent, that he's worked with some pretty big authors and that he doesn't need to sell drugs to keep his lifestyle. How does a literary agent become a drug dealer in the first place? Hell, he didn't even know his first name. That if Crowley is actually his real name.

He never asks any questions though.

Cas used to wonder why, why did he never ask him about his life? It took him a while to find out the reason behind it but he figured it out.

The sun is setting, they're both doped up with Xanax, it's unusual but it feels good. Everything feels good, doesn't it? 

Crowley stands by the window, white shirt open, sleeves rolled up, a cigarette rests between his fingers. From the couch Castiel can only see his back, the man is staring out of the window and what goes through his mind is a mystery that Cas at the same time wants to unravel and never ever unveil. He never wants to know a thing about him. Because his man is his the way he is right now, an enigma in Armani suits and high on deluxe pills. And no matter what Crowley says, he's wrong. In a way or another he is Castiel's.


End file.
